


Bar Butterflies

by BlackCheckerRed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1st person narrative type stuff, Dean POV, M/M, probably OOC but fun to write, slangy bs, snytax abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:54:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackCheckerRed/pseuds/BlackCheckerRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean likes bars. and women. Dean likes women in bars...there's absolutely no reason that he should be annoyed, worse introspective and annoyed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bar Butterflies

I always knew that this was the way things would turn out. Me taking care of Sammy, riding down the road, laughing and spitting meaningless words into the wind.  
Moreover, for the most part, I’m ok with it, Sam being Sam, trying and never quite getting out those verbal ripostes, to my less than subtle teasing. Yeah, I know what it means, I know the answers, Sam’s not the only bookworm in the family, though he likes to make the most of it, I just didn’t flaunt the knowledge.

 

I kinda like being unexpectedly smart, when Sam was backed into a corner and I saved his ass with a quip on my tongue that never failed to make his mouth form a strange ‘O’. 

 

Kinda liked it.

 

What I didn’t like though? Was this life, always pushing me into him, pushing me into Sam.  
And Sam always needing me to be…there...for him.  
Like I could stop. Like I could not be. As if I didn’t have him crammed into my existence so often that people didn’t understand the sheer goddamn …resentment...that I had towards him. 

Mostly ‘cause of the fact that Sam had made it clear years ago that he didn’t want m- want this life as much as the rest of the family did. He showed me that when he left for Stanford, even if I was proud as hell of the kid.  
I knew that it sounded childish in the back of my mind but I could never really shake the fact that Sam walked away from me first and that…well, dammit, that hurt. Hurt badly enough that I always made it a point not to let Sam get to much under my skin, even when I had to go back and get him. 

Tear him away from his normal, apple pie life.

 

But watching him tear himself up over Jessica was not only heart rending but strangely disconcerting, Sam seemed to mourn the idea of Jessica more than the girl herself, he seemed to involved with the tragedy of his own guilt to really let go of his grief of the person that Jessica was, had been…whatever, as though he had only really embraced her as an ideal or another prop in his mind of what a ‘successful’ life personified.

 

I didn’t understand it but I did try to be there for my brother, often in the only ways I had ever allowed myself to be. That mantra was always ringing in my head and not just because of dad but because Sam was just flat out mine.  
Sam belonged to me, had been handed to me as a sacred trust and I fought with ghosts, ghouls, monsters, cops and mostly with Sam himself to make certain that basic tenet was well and truly established.

 

Never meant that I didn’t see my own…need… obsession….brutally misunderstood ache.

Sam was by no means a prude, he had always been more of a sensualist, since he had turned about fourteen and his sexuality hadn’t just blossomed, it had exploded.  
Messy, involved, angry and accompanied by a stash of Anais Ninn. 

 

Weird kid.

 

But he never hesitated to let me know that my own brand of blatant (and I thought tastefully adult and forthright) sexuality was something that he found to be beneath his contempt and strived for a superior sneer that was meant to communicate to me how juvenile he found it all.

What Sam never realized was that I often caught the jealousy he fought so hard to disguise beneath that veneer, the slanted looks and the too pointed NOT looking at me that he fought with himself over, never realizing that I had specialized in the school of Sammy since I was four years old.

Sam got ok with my need to find a random woman in a bar, Sam dismissed it. What he couldn’t understand, not even in his foundation, was that often these, women, these bar front butterflies, were often wise and sweet and recognized something in me that I hadn’t realized in myself that I needed, while in the filth of a moment.

That I was lonely. That I was in love, or, loved, someone or something that I wasn’t quite sure of.  
Those women seemed to know. Those women seemed to know something I didn’t. 

Dammit.

That I had a tendency to visualize Sam’s mouth when I was really excited, that I had strange moments when the thought of my brother’s light infused flesh made my hands curl into fists or made me touch a soft curve to harshly.  
It pissed me off, having Sam intrude so often into my thoughts, having the sense of him break into my most private moments.  
I sometimes thought, if I could just take him, just pin him down and have him, that I would be able to get him out of my system, get square and true with the picture of Sam, little brother that I can generally keep him in.

The reality was, well actually fairly simple. 

I, Dean Winchester, might be screwed up but I sure as hell wasn’t fucked up.  
I couldn’t do that to Sam.  
I could never hurt him like that. I didn’t have the ability. No ifs, ands or buts, NEVER gonna happen. 

‘Cause I can’t betray that little kid he always sorta is, in my head.

Even if he ever wanted me to, which is completely ridiculous, because I raised him right, so no way.

So occasionally, Just sometimes, When even Sam himself can’t tell, I think about how god-awful pretty he is , I think about how fucking perfect his mouth looks, even when he’s bitching about something or making sense or (worse) pissing me off and making sense.

I, even, occasionally let my mind wander, thinking about how he might look as an old man, with indelible snow frosted into his hair.  
And I can’t help seeing myself in that odd scenario, leaning over him, to take in his scent, if I’m still alive, still around, always looking at Sammy, always, even in that far off maybe, wondering about his taste.

 

And I sort of feel safe, thinking about a possible someday where Sam and I are still living in each other’s hip pockets because even if I never learn to not want, I get my baby brother enough to understand that Sam will never learn how to stop saying no.  
To me.

**Author's Note:**

> I never really know why this shit crops up in my head and I honestly have no idea if its comprehensible or not, but goddamn its fun!  
> I own nothing...except a fast car & enough rock & roll to piss off the neighbors...


End file.
